


for they are no more

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: BotFA spoilers - Freeform, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dís and Dwalin mourn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for they are no more

_A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children, and will not be comforted, for they are no more._

_\-- Jeremiah 35:15_

 

The raven arrived long before he did. Dwalin knew it would, but he set out anyway, mounted on one of Dain’s goats—they were sturdier than ponies, especially over the mountains. It had been foolish of them to take ponies in the first place, but Thorin had always preferred them to goats, and he had justified it given that ponies were better suited to the gentle lands of the Shire and the Blue Mountains. He was right in that, at least.

Balin offered to accompany him. Bilbo and Gandalf urged him to delay for a few weeks and share their journey. But Dwalin refused them all, and two months after the battle he found himself riding into Belegost on a very tired goat. The roads were bustling with activity—joyful activity, as families packed their things and built wagons, singing songs of return to the mountain. Many, he noted, wore torn cloaks or clothes made of undyed, undecorated fabrics in honor of their late king and his heirs, but two months had passed. The sting of loss, for most, had dulled. Dwalin was wearing much the same thing he had worn on the journey to Erebor, although he had replaced or repaired things that were worn. Dwarves in mourning removed all jewelry from their hair and beard, but he never wore any except the rings in his ears—and those, being gifts, he was loathe to part from. Some people noticed his arrival and cheered, but one by one he saw them remember who he was and shrink back. They would not greet him, they would not speak—not until he spoke first, and he would not speak first. He was here to see Dís.

Her house was in the center of the settlement, next to his own. Dwalin glanced abjectly at the door but could not stomach even the thought of opening it, knowing that the rooms beyond were empty. He stopped the goat at Dís’s door and dropped all his things at his own doorstep. The goat happily roamed, and Dwalin knocked on Dís’s door.

“In the name of the good maker, cousin, what in the world are you doing here?” she asked, bewildered, and Dwalin smiled weakly.

“Bothering you, Dís—what else?”

He pushed back his hood and tapped their foreheads together. (Dís was inches taller than her brother and the only dwarf equal to Dwalin’s height this side of the Misty Mountains.) Dís led him into the house and wordlessly set a plate of fresh bread and sausages, and a mug of ale in front of him. The house bore signs of packing, although now that Kili was no longer here it was neater than it had been in years.

“Going to the mountain, then?”

“Aye. I’d say four of five dwarves from Erebor are returning, and three of five of the Belegost lot as well. It’s caused no end of trouble for me, figuring out how to keep those who remain organized. Trade routes will suffer, but we can only hope that the renewal of the northern trade will help dwarves throughout middle earth. Time will tell.”

“It always does.”

Dwalin ate slowly, observing Dís as he did. She had aged since last he saw her. Her golden hair—so admired, so like her eldest son’s—was shot through with gray, and pulled back in a simple knot, when usually her braids rivaled Dori’s. Her beard was longer. Her shirt was mourner’s garb, he could tell, but her heavy work trousers and the green vest she wore were not. He wondered if she had sat _haded_ for her sons already. Normally a dwarf would stay at home for seven days following the funeral, surrounded by loved ones, brought food, comforted in the way they best desired... but Dís had not  been at her sons’ funeral, and so many of her closest friends were gone, in Erebor or in the grave. He hoped the settlement had rallied around her. Dís was a strong dwarf, but she had seen too much loss in too short a time. She wore her emerald wedding ring, and it flashed in the light as he finger tapped slowly, rhythmically, on the table.

Finally he pushed his plate away, and Dís sat forward.

“Tell me,” she said simply.

“Tell you what?”

“Everything. From the beginning to the end. How did the journey begin, and how was the dragon defeated, and how did the battle come about... how did they die. My boys.”

Her voice wavered on the last word. She meant, of course, all three of them. Dwalin gazed at her steadily for a moment, and then shook his head and looked down at his own hands.

“You don’t need to hear that, cousin,” he said in quiet rumble.

“I do.”

“I witnessed it and I wish I hadn’t. Dís—”

“Do you remember when Frerin died?” Dís said crisply, rapping her knuckles against the table. “And no one wanted to tell me—no one wanted to tell me about Frerin, or about my grandfather or that my father was gone? But _you_ told me. You had just lost your mother.” Dwalin bowed his head, and Dís’s voice became gentle. “You were grieving, and still you sat down with me and told me the truth and held me when I cried, because you said I deserved to know that they had died as heroes. Please, Dwalin. I need to know, and I need you to tell me. You’re the only brother I have left. Who else am I to rely on?”

There was a long silence. Her hand rested on the table between them, and Dwalin reached out and placed his hand on top of hers. Slowly, he began to speak. He started with his arrival in Bag-End and traced their entire journey. Dís sighed when he recounted Thorin’s foolish attack on the wargs and flinched when he recounted Kili’s injury. He had spent so much of his trip back pondering goldsickness, grieving for Thorin and berating himself for not noticing the signs, and so he spent a long time charting its slow development, begging Dís to understand. She was his sister. She, if no one else, had to understand.

“Mugrê...” she whispered when he told her that Thorin had threatened him, and she squeezed his hand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

She began to cry when he spoke of the battle. When Dwalin spoke of Fili’s death—he closed his eyes so he would not have to look at her when he thought of the way the body had fell limp onto the ground—she let out a sob from the depths of her being and drew away. He stopped and spoke her name, but she pushed herself away from the table and stood.

“Keep going,” she ordered in a rough voice.

He spoke in a voice so low he was surprised she could hear him, and recounted what he had heard of Kili’s death from the elf. _‘Where were you?_ ’ he expected her to ask. _‘You vowed to protect them, did you not? Why did you fail?_ ’ But she said nothing, not until he finally relayed Thorin’s last words, as recounted by Bilbo, and fell to silence. There was more to say, but he couldn’t. He closed his eyes and tried to banish the pain from his heart. For two months he had felt nothing—nothing at all. He preferred emptiness to this.

“Why?” she wailed, tears choking her voice. “Why my line, why my sons? They were only boys, they--they are _children_. Why does Mahal take our children from us? They deserved better. They deserved _better_. And Thorin...” Dwalin looked up and found her looking over her shoulder at him. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, and her beard glimmered with tears. “He—he was the strongest. Of all of us. He can’t—how can we go on without him? How? I can’t... he’s always been there for me. Without him, without my sons, I...”

Dwalin stood then and walked to her. She sank gratefully into his arms and rested her head against his shoulder as she moaned in pain. He buried his face in her hair and, for the first time, allowed his own tears to fall.

“I’m so sorry, Dís,” he said in a hoarse murmur. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

They stood there weeping for a long time, until the light outside began to dim. It got dark early here, on the eastern foot of the mountain, and Dwalin found the darkness more comforting than the sun had been. He did not draw away from Dís, but after a moment she leaned back and broke his grip. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, and turned away. Her walk was brisk and businesslike as she began looking through her cupboards.

“Are you staying here for dinner? I’ll need to go to market.”

“Dís…”

“Are you staying or not?”

“Aye, if you’ll have me.”

“You’re family. Of course I’ll have you.” She paused for a moment and then, still not looking at him, said “And you don’t have to apologize to me. Feel guilty if you like—but I knew them best. I knew there was a possibility this would happen. No lone dwarf can prevent fate from wreaking havoc, as it will.”

She strode to the door and took her cloak off its peg, and Dwalin stood to follow her. There were fewer people on the streets now, but it took him and Dís a long time to walk the few blocks to the market, because nearly every person stopped to greet them. They did not ask Dwalin questions about his quest, did not mention Thorin—between he and Dís, he figured their expressions contained enough of a warning to steer clear of the topic. But in the voice of each passerby was more awe and respect than he had ever expected to be directed towards him, even given his status as the king’s husband, and he was startled by it.

“You were only a dwarf before you left,” Dís commented idly when she saw the look on his face. She slipped her arm through his as they walked. “You’re a legend now. Imagine how Bombur and Ori will react when they receive the same treatment.”

“That’ll be something to see,” Dwalin said, with something like a natural smile.

“Aye.” She bent her head closer and said in a low voice. “And see how they look at me?”

“You were a princess before,” Dwalin murmured. “Now you could be king. If you wanted to.”

Dís laughed bitterly. They shopped in silence, and returned to her house. Wordlessly, she handed the basket to Dwalin, who had always been the better cook; half the time she and the boys had piled into his and Thorin’s home for dinner, and it wasn’t unusual for Balin, Oin, and Gloin and his family to join them, too. He ought to stop by Gloin’s house soon, he thought, and greet Kama and her children.

While he cooked, Dís sat at the table and took out her pipe.

“Do others expect me to be king?” she asked abruptly.

“I don’t know. I left before there was much discussion—or perhaps they didn’t want to talk of it in front of me. Dain and Balin were making most of the decisions together, I think.”

“Dain said in the raven that he would respect my claim. I told him no.”

Dwalin nodded and bowed his head.

“Did you want me to be king, Dwalin?”

“I…”

“I could not be Thorin.”

“I loved Thorin. I did not think he was perfect.” He paused for a moment and let out a heavy sigh. “Aye. I wanted you to be king. I fought for your grandfather and your brother, I would have fought for you son—and I would fight for you, uzan.”

She stood and put her hand on his back.

“I can’t, Dwalin. Too much of my family has been lost—how can I wear a crown I once pictured on my son’s head? Sit on the throne my brother occupied for such a short time? Rule the mountain that has become their tomb? I _can’t_. It is hard enough for me to leave the Blue Mountains, when I know that the lust for a kingdom claimed the rest of my line. The _thought_ of Erebor pains me. It is only that the thought of remaining here, hiding away from everything they wanted, pains me more.”

Dwalin nodded. He turned around and kissed Dís on her whiskery cheek, wishing he could do something, anything, to heal her. She was the closest thing he had to a sister, one of his dearest friends since childhood. He looked into her eyes, lovely deep brown eyes that she had passed onto Kili, and saw only pain there. Pain and resignation, because she knew it would not lessen soon or ever.

“They will not be forgotten,” he swore to her. “We will see to that. For as long as the mountain stands, the people of Durin will know who won it for them. Thorin Oakenshield, Fili, and Kili. Their names will be remembered.”

Dís flinched, and he realized that she had not said her children’s names once that day. He opened his mouth, but before he could think of what to say, Dís smiled and touched a hand to his shoulder.

“Thank you, cousin. I think I will go to bed—it has been a tiring day. Stay here for the night. All I have is yours, and the road has been long.”

“Aye.” She turned and walked away, as regal as a king could be, and Dwalin couldn’t help but call out “Dís?”, thinking to offer her food or an ale or whatever comfort he could, but she did not turn around.

“Good night, Dwalin.”

She closed her bedroom door behind her. Most houses in the settlement had only one floor, and Dís’s bedroom was close by the kitchen. Dwalin made his meal and sat down at the kitchen table, staring out the window. He could go home, he thought. But he did not like being alone. He was not meant to be alone too long. At his heart, he knew he was meant to protect, to guard, and in the absence of the one he had vowed himself too, he would guard Dís. He sat outside her door and listened to her weep as the night stretched on.

**Author's Note:**

> haded--seven  
> mugre--my bear (term of endearment)  
> uzan--greatest lady
> 
> Dwarven mourning practices (including the phrase 'sitting haded/shiva') are borrowed from Jewish mourning practices, with some alterations given the differences in culture. I know Tolkien's portrayals of the dwarves further anti-semitic stereotypes, but my version of the dwarves do not have the innate greediness Tolkien assigns them, and I hope to round out this portrayal by demonstrating the way in which Judaism can be a healing, communally-supportive influence.


End file.
